An open letter to Kevin, seven years on

Dear Kevin,

The days and weeks leading up to today have been very odd. It's such a hard time–the pandemic still rages, I haven't traveled in over a year, the country is still a mess post-Trump (though there may be blessings in disguise by revealing our wounds)–and I expected the days leading up to today to be awful. 

They weren't.

I've been mostly okay, which is pretty uncomfortable. I'm afraid it means I've betrayed you somehow and that I've relegated you to what was, though I know you would laugh at the thought. You still are. You are in my heart and the hearts of many others. And yet, here I was, occasionally sniffly and mostly okay. It felt very strange.

I decided I needed to be alone today, so I went for a drive to a park on the Vermillion River, near the Mississippi. That's another weird thing. I don't know if you ever set foot in Minnesota, yet here I am. Anyway, I went for a walk. I looked at the water. I talked to you. I didn't cry. In years past I've gone to a movie because you so loved movies and would then sob in the parking lot, but this year with COVID, that wasn't a wise idea. And the tears didn't come.

When I was done with my walk I got back in the car and thought about you. The sweet memories come so much more easily now, though today has its share of flashbacks. I remembered when we went to the Paul McCartney concert at Fenway, and put on The Beatles so we could sing together as I drove back home, to another man, in a house you would love but didn't know existed, with a dog you would adore. 

It didn't take long to start. Crying and singing and driving home, you were with me.

Do you remember?

In 2009, when we were still in Boston, Paul McCartney announced he was touring and coming to Fenway Park. I staunchly said I didn't want to go, but you kept asking. Of course I wanted to go even if I didn't want to admit it, so I bought tickets. You suggested I ask one of my old friends to go with me, but I was clear that we should go together. 

Our seats were directly across from the stage, but far back. McCartney was a tiny figure, far smaller than life, flanked by two huge screens where he was larger than life. It was a great concert. He knew why everyone was there and played only a few songs from the newest album, then song after song from The Beatles, with a few from Wings thrown in for good measure. 

You had never seen me like that. At one point when I was lost in the music, in my past, I was playing air guitar, utterly unconcerned that there were 34,999 people around me. I saw you smiling at me and froze, suddenly aware of what I was doing. You told me to go ahead and began to air drum. You accepted me as I was in that moment, as you so often did, and joined me there without hesitation.

You sang along with all of us, and wiped tears away at Let It Be. It was, hands down, the best big concert I've ever been to, for all that it was huge, loud, and McCartney is an overwhelming ham.

When I was driving home today I remembered us there, together, and so much more. I pulled over and sobbed. It felt good to finally cry, to feel the feelings that I suspected were there. It also felt good that I didn't need to cry for hours. That I could talk to you and feel comfort. That I was, even if sad, mostly okay.

When you died I sought solace in some online grief groups. When I or someone else would ask if it was this bad forever, someone would say that it changes. It's not that you don't miss them or grieve them, but it eases. In time you find a new balance and remember the sweet as much as the pain. I think I'm getting to that point, uncomfortable though it may be, it is as it should be. 

I'm wrung out now, as you might expect. I still love you, and always will. There is room for more love than I ever imagined. I'm missing you terribly and full of cognitive dissonance about the life I now have and the one that might have been. And I am mostly okay. 

Love always,

Laura

P.S.

It's not the year we were there but it's similar enough. You can hear thousands of people singing along. I like to think I can hear your voice. I love you.

----------------------------------

Support me on Patreon.

laurapacker.com Performance, coaching, keynotes, and more.

thinkstory.com Organizational storytelling, communications consulting, and more.

(c)2021 Laura S. Packer

The lucky shot

I have always loved the nature photography in publications like National Geographic. Those stunning images give the sense of being right there with the animals, plants, events, and places with a crisp immediacy and vitality. These amazing images have proliferated and are easy to find with a simple search; it gives the impression that those moments happen all of the time, that the shots aren't hard to get.

Ha.

As you may know, in recent years I've become more and more interested in photography. I have Kevin's good camera and use it often. My most frequent subjects are the birds and animals I see in our backyard and the woods beyond, though I'm also terribly fond of abandoned buildings and close up shots of things. Despite having a good camera, Annie Liebowitz' comment that her favorite camera is the one she has with her at the moment does me good to remember. It's a matter of timing and luck, not just equipment.

A few days ago Charley and I were watching a spectacular sunset from our back porch. I didn't have my good camera with me and was just present in the moment, watching the sky shift and the colors change. I'd been there for at least 30 minutes when our local owl flew by and landed on a nearby branch. I didn't have my camera, I had only my phone, and with it I captured what may be the best photo I have ever taken. Sure, it would have been better had I used my good camera with its wonderful zoom lens, but that wasn't what I had and sometimes you just have to leap for the lucky shot. Here it is, with no filters or post-production magic save trimming and a watermark.

The advent of digital photography means I take literally thousands of photos a month. Of those maybe a hundred are acceptable and a small handful are good. I'm sure those National Geographic photographers would say the same thing. It's a matter of being in the right place, at the right time, with the right mindset.

Is there a metaphor here? Hmm... something about using what you have at hand, being present in the moment, being patient, leaping for the lucky shot, failing again and again and still trying? Maybe. Yes, there is, but for right now? I'll love whatever camera I have at hand, I will watch, I will forgive myself for the poor shots and missed moments, and I will be present in the world. The lucky shot will come again for me, as it has over and over.

It will for you, too.

----------------------------------
Support me on Patreon.
laurapacker.com Performance, coaching, keynotes, and more.
thinkstory.com Organizational storytelling, communications consulting, and more.
(c)2019 Laura S. Packer

Shimmering

My father's memorial service was last Sunday. It was a lovely event. My mother told the story of his life, weaving in all the people attending. A cousin remembered my father as someone who was able to seriously listen to children, a rare skill. An old friend recounted some of their childhood exploits.

I struggled with what to say. My dad and I had a challenging relationship. We came to peace with one another before he died, something I will be eternally grateful for, but it's still not easy for me to talk about him and how we interacted, who we were with one another. I don't know if it ever will be. Much of it still feels too raw and too private.

A memorial service is not the place to pull out recrimination. We need to remember the dead honestly but gently, especially at memorials. Our survival gives us a chance to remember that no one is perfect and forgiveness makes life easier for the living. I know not all of you will agree with me and that's fine. Perhaps I should say that I need to remember my father honestly and gently, and was not willing to roll anything else out at his memorial.

I wrote earlier about all of this and I did what I planned. I acknowledged the complexity, saying something to the effect of all lives are complicated, all relationships are complicated, but here and now, let me share with you some of the shimmering memories I have of my father.

It was the right call.

I talked about being a child and listening to him tell me the stories he heard as boy on the radio. I may have been the only five year old in 1970s Philadelphia doing imitations of The Shadow. I talked about the stories he made up for me. I talked about watching the night sky with him, with all of the night noises surrounding us, and the constellations watching us back. I talked about how he was able to fix things, solve things, make things better. It was the right call. I felt better by remembering him at his best and I hope it was meaningful to everyone there.

At the end I invited everyone to take a moment and bring their own shimmering memory to mind, whether of my father or of someone else they love who is gone.

In the end, that's what we come down to. We are shimmering memories. We live as long as we are still a glimmer in the ether, a moment that bring a pause in the day. There are plenty of harsh memories but the sweetness is there too. By remembering it all, letting it illuminate us as we will eventually illuminate others, the world continues. The constellations still watch. The stories remain in the air. We still shimmer.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Expect wonders

I sometimes struggle to find inspiration for anything. For writing, for stories, for cleaning the kitchen, for getting out of the house. I bet you do, too. Wonder, I have found, is an excellent antidote to the struggle. This may very well not work if you're in the throes of depression (I've been there, so I know), but if you're just feeling as though there will never be anything inspiring ever again and you want to sulk, open yourself up to wonder. Maybe the universe will come through this time. It often does for me.

Wonder is everywhere. I'm not talking about the BIG awe-inspiring wonders, like Niagara Falls or the birth of a baby, but the things we will see if we are willing to take some time to look.

I went for a walk in the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum with my sweetheart a few weeks ago. It was a hot, bright day, the air clinging to our skin and clothing. The arboretum has many different landscapes you can explore, all lovely and all full of wonder. There are sculpted gardens, rosebeds, woodland, marshes and more.

At first I saw the big things.

 

Then I began to see details.

And soon enough the world exploded into wonder.

Wonder is there if we look for it. You needn't be in an arboretum or any other special place, you just need to be willing to let it in. It's in the cracks in the sidewalk, the slip of paper left in an old book, the expression on a stranger's face, the arc of the clouds across the sky. It is big and it is little. It is in our pores and in the air we breath.

When we are open to wonder, we are open to the world and much more able to make something of it.

What wonder have you found lately?

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Living the dream?

Several years before I leapt into self-employment but was dreaming about it often, a friend looked at me quite seriously and said, "Don't do it. Don't decide that what you love is what's going to support you."

I thought he was nuts. How could being a professional, full-time storyteller be anything but a magnificent, rose-scented life? How could it not be a romantic adventure? I can hear some of you laughing now, those of you who know already. The rest of you who don't have already gathered that it's not what I thought it would be. This isn't to say I would choose to do anything else. I find the benefits outweigh the challenges and I love my work, I love seeing what happens when I tell, write, coach and consult. But it's much harder than I ever imagined and my current boss can be very difficult. Let me stress, I know I am deeply privileged to do this work. I am privileged to live in a time and place where I can support myself as an artist. It's just not quite what I expected before I leapt.

Let's take a look at some of what I assumed and what really is. This is, of course, my list and experience. I'd love to hear about yours!

• Although I would have denied this with everything in my soul, I secretly believed my natural talent meant all I had to do was make myself available and I would soon be flooded with more work at better pay than I could ever actually do. In reality it doesn't matter how talented I or anyone else is. Being self-employed means that most of the work is looking for work, for the next gig, and that has an element of drudgery. I am still learning how to do the tasks I don't like. It's even harder to do them when I am the only one impacted by it. It can be much easier to work when there are others who depend on me.
• I assumed I would be able to set my own schedule. Sure, I sleep later more often than many of my friends with day jobs, but my work hours are often longer (see below) and less predictable. What's more, I sometimes have to ask clients to wait on scheduling me while I wait for confirmation from other clients and so on. It can get pretty complex. It's not a reliable 9-5 kind of life.
• I assumed I would have a life where work was play and play was work, that I would never feel bogged down by the work of my heart. Ha! Yes, I love my work (more on that below) but I miss time off. A break. But I have discovered that - 
• I never, ever stop working. I work on weekends, I work at night. I go out and I always, always, ALWAYS have business cards and a spiel ready. Because if I don't work, I don't eat. I don't have the luxury of paid vacation, so I try to make sure that everything I do has some component of work to it. I just took five days off and, for the first time in years, didn't make the trip a work trip. It was great but there was ongoing low-level anxiety the whole time. I still checked email. I still made phone calls. This blog post is work. I do very little that doesn't get measured as a possible paid-work creating activity.
• I forgot that artists (really everyone) need community; I assumed I would work in my cloister and thrive in isolation. As it is, I need to work to find connection with others; I have friends who help me with accountability, getting things done, brainstorming and more. Those relationships need care and feeding; they are vital to my work.
• I assumed creativity would flow like sap in the spring without the distractions of a day job. It does sometimes. Other times I am utterly, totally dry. And it can be pretty scary knowing that my livelihood is dependent solely on me, my creativity and my drive.

These are just some of the things I didn't anticipate, or at least didn't anticipate to the degree they exist. Being a self-employed person is hard. There are many parts I would rather not do, but if I don't do them then I don't get to do the parts that I love. And that's what this post is really about.

Dreams don't come true because your fairy godmother waves her wand and decrees that thou shalt be an effortlessly successful artist. Overnight sensations are usually years of hard work and then breakthroughs based on that work. 

I am learning to value the hard parts of being self-employed because they give me the freedom to practice the parts I really, truly love. I am learning to treasure those other working artists and self-employed friends who help me get things done. I am learning to celebrate the small victories (yay! I wrote a blog post) as well as the big ones (yay! so-and-so booked me!). I don't think I will ever stop learning how to ask for help, how to manage the drudgery, and finding new ways to feed myself creatively. It is all worth it though sometimes I think I should throw in the towel and get a day job again.

Were I to do that, however, I would need to redefine myself. My work gives me definition and form that is worth fighting for.

I am a storyteller and performing artist who creates and performs works that entertain and move my audiences. 

I am a writer who helps people see themselves and their world with more clarity and meaning.

I am a communications consultant who get things done and creates meaningful change in organizations around the world. 

I am a coach who helps my clients create the lives and work they want, so they can dream bigger and go farther.

In all of that, I am a dreamer. I am living the dream. It's just a helluva lot more work than I anticipated. It is the sweet and the bitter, the boring and the burning. I know how lucky I am and I am grateful every day. There are parts that are more wonderful than I ever could have imagined. I am so lucky.

And if you're thinking of taking the leap? I won't tell you not to. Go ahead! Just don't forget that the dishes still need to get done, the bills have to be paid, and romance is as much about hard work as it is about passion.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Atonement and forgiveness

Yom Kippur was this week. For those who don't know, Yom Kippur is the Jewish Day of Atonement, the most holy of the Jewish holidays. It's a chance to recognize and atone for our sins throughout the year. It's a chance to acknowledge communally that we will fail but we can strive to live better lives. It's a chance to reach for forgiveness, to forgive those who have harmed us and to ask for forgiveness from those we have harmed.

I have struggled with guilt related to Kevin's illness and death. While I may know rationally that I did everything possible to help him, some part of me continues to wonder if I could have done just a little bit more. As time has passed and I've begun to heal, I've wrestled with guilt that I am living a good life without him. I am in the beginnings of a new relationship and that brings up more guilt, feelings that I am betraying Kevin.

I know none of this guilt and distress has basis in reality. I did everything possible to help him fight his cancer and then I did everything possible to give him a good death. He would want nothing less for me now than happiness, for me to find joy in my own life and with another. I know these things are all true. And yet I still feel conflicted that my life has gone on, as it should.

Part of what happens when we grieve is we want a reason for the loss, some kind of logical explanation. I found none but I kept looking and ended up trying to own some of it myself. While I suspect this was inevitable, it was and is fruitless. Holding onto guilt for his death will not help him. It will not help his kids nor will it help me. Life continues.

What I have found as an antidote to guilt is forgiveness. It's not a clear path and it's something I have to find my way toward over and over again, but forgiveness helps.

I've never been particularly angry with Kevin for getting cancer and dying. I know people who have been enraged with their dead spouse for leaving them; that's not my way. I have been angry with him for not going to the doctor sooner, when I was already afraid it was pancreatic cancer, four months before he was diagnosed. I have forgiven him that and all those small wounds we inflict on those we love. In forgiving him I can just love him. Relationships require us to for-give those we love, to acknowledge in advance that shit will happen and we still love them.

I've forgiven the doctor who laughed when I told her I was afraid it was pancreatic cancer. She said he was young and strong, that he didn't look like he had cancer, that he was clearly and accurately diagnosed with a different condition, highly treatable. I never want to see her again, but I decided I'd rather live in a world where people make honest mistakes than one in which the world is dictated by lawsuit driven caution and fear. Even had he been diagnosed that day, the outcome would have been no different. I have forgiven her and I hope like hell she learned something from this.

Most importantly, I am working on forgiving myself. Far too easily I find myself focusing on the stupid things I did, the times when I was impatient or inattentive or downright unpleasant. I think about what I could have done to make him more comfortable. I wonder if I should have put him in the car and driven down to Mexico for alternative treatment, even knowing the drive itself would have been too much. I castigate myself for the nights I didn't spend in the hospital when I know I was a comfort, even when I desperately needed the rest. None of this helps.

It is only when I forgive myself that I breath deeply enough to let the light in. Letting go of the guilt means there is more room for everything. If Kevin taught me nothing else he helped me understand that love is a basic part of my nature. It is a basic part of all our natures. When I forgive myself, for-give that I have made mistakes and will make more, I am more able to love the world, which I am coming to believe is one of the very best things I can do.

On Yom Kippur this year I sat by the ocean and watched the waves roll in and out. I thought about love and forgiveness. I tracked pelicans as they soared low over the water and thought of how life and death are everywhere, visible or not.

I have atoned for Kevin's death enough, an atonement he never would have wanted in the first place. While I will never stop missing him (I still talk to him all the time) I would rather find ways to dwell in love and celebrate his life, my life, the world. He would want nothing less, as would I had I been the one who died. I would rather live in the world with possibility, as flawed as it and I may be.

May the new year bring you light and peace and forgiveness and love.

(c)2015 Laura S. Packer

Grateful for the pain

As you may have noticed, I've fallen off the 365-day-blog-challenge wagon. With good reason. Just over a week ago my husband, the love of my life, the thorn in my side, the man who challenges me to be better every day, who believes I already am better, the man who makes me laugh and sigh, that man, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

Just typing that hurts.

If you want to know more about his illness you can check out his caringbridge page. I don't want to recount it here. Go ahead. I'll be waiting when you get back.

In the last week we have spent most of our time in the hospital, where they are poking, prodding, determining, diagnosing, arguing and trying to understand what's happening to him. He has been in so much pain he cannot walk and is moaning aloud. Through all of this I have been only able to hold his hand or rub his back or tell him I love him. Over and over again.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Because there is nothing else I can really say.

I have never cried so hard as I have this week, though I expect I will have lessons in crying harder. I cannot bear to imagine what he will have to go through, what is to come, yet it is all I can think about.

Through it all, there is a peculiar kind of grace emerging, one I never wanted but recognize. I am so angry this is happening to him. And I am so grateful that I am here with him. I have never hurt like this - and I know my pain is nothing compared to his - but even this much emotional pain is exceeded by love. By the love I feel for him. By the love I feel for my friends and family. By the love I see wrapping around him with every text message, every phone call, every moment spent reading by his bedside, every act of kindness. I would not see it so easily were it not for the magnitude of the pain.

I'm in no way talking about physical pain. What my beloved is experiencing in his body is awful and bears no gift. But the very rawness of this time allows us to see what we miss in everyday life. The grace. The small moments of kindness that make life manageable, if not always bearable. The love. Always the love.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

365 day blog challenge, day 12. Good advice

Day 12: the best advice you’ve ever heard or ever been given

As with yesterday, I have always tended to to follow my own lead. Some would say I am headstrong.

That being said, some of the great advice I've heard is also some of the most common.

• Be true to yourself
• Be kind to yourself
• Be compassionate, you don't know what someone else is going through
• Take a risk
• Listen first
• etc...

It looks a little trite, written out in front of me.

Let me tell you a story about unexpected good advice.

When I was in my mid-twenties, my job required me to interview former psychiatric patients, often in their homes. It was fascinating; I learned the basics of skip tracing (remember, this is before the internet was pervasive), learned how to deliver psychiatric interviews and developed tremendous respect for those who are fighting for their own minds.

Most of the people I interviewed were lovely with a history of depression. A few had more complex histories. A few were still ill. Of the hundreds of people I interviewed, I only ever felt nervous about a few.

One of the people who made me nervous was a man who had a history of depression with psychosis. This means he was depressed and heard voices or saw things no one else could. When I arrived at his home it was clear he was still outside the usual measure of "normal." The place was in terrible disrepair. There were abandoned toys over his front lawn; they looked as though they had been there for years, half submerged in the dirt. He was unwashed and couldn't hold eye contact. I was, I admit, cautious. I was alone in the house with this man.

As the interview progressed I became more nervous. He had a great deal of anger towards his ex-wife which spilled over to anger at women in general. He did nothing to suggest a threat to me, but his words were alarming. Most of his answers had something to do with the evil of his ex-wife and women. I felt quite wary, but didn't feel as though I needed to leave.

We finally got to the part of the interview where I was asking him about his family. After raging about his ex-wife (again) he told me about his children. He glowed. He sounded so proud of them. And then he told me he hadn't heard from them in 20 years. Everything he knew was because his sister kept him informed. His kids wanted nothing to do with him and he hadn't made any effort to reach them. He kept their toys in the yard because he missed them and he thought maybe someday his grandkids might like them, if he ever met his grandkids. In that moment my fear shifted. I was still wary, but now I could view him with compassion.

And then he said this, "You don't regret the things you do. You regret the things you don't do. I guess I should've called them years ago." He was quiet for a minute and then finally met my eyes in a quick glance. 

We finished the interview and I never saw him again.

But his words have stuck with me. Maybe that's the advice I needed to hear then and I certainly carry it with me now.  You can twist it into something it's not, but I think it's worth remembering - life is here to be lived.

You don't regret the things you do. You regret the things you don't do.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

You never know... some thoughts on gratitude

So here I am, on American Thanksgiving Day. There is a lot that can (and should) be said about the politics of this holiday, but for now I'd like to share some thoughts with you about influence and gratitude. This is a long post, so thank you for your patience.

I've had many teachers in my life. You already know about Brother Blue, but today I'd like to tell you about three others.

I attended public school. I had some mediocre teachers and a few amazing ones. Among the best were Mrs. Gilmore and Mr. Mealey.

Mrs. Gilmore was my fourth grade teacher at C.W. Henry Elementary School in Mt. Airy, Philadelphia, PA. She was a tiny woman, barely taller than I was, with greying hair she wore in a bun. She was African-American and, looking back on it, I imagine her determination to get to where she was. She was fiercely fair; if you worked, you were rewarded. If you didn't, you failed. Most of the kids were scared of her. I don't think I was. I remember watching her work with one of the struggling students and seeing how gently she placed her hand on their back. I remember her terrifying a bully into behaving. And I remember a gift she gave me that has stuck with me to this day.

I was one of the brighter students in the class, reading well above my grade level. I was always in the most advanced reading group. Then, one day, half of my group was given a new reading book. I was in the half that wasn't. I was offended and asked her why I didn't get the new book. She looked at me quite calmly and told me that if I wanted to be the best I had to work at it, not just rely on my gifts. I was stunned. No one had ever told me that my inherent intelligence wasn't enough. I went back to my desk and read the rest of the assigned book within a day or two on my own and was duly promoted to the advanced group. I remember her smile as she handed me the book; clearly this was a victory for us both.

I haven't forgotten that lesson.

Mr. Mealey was my tenth grade biology teacher at the Philadelphia High School for Girls'. Over the course of the school year we became friends; he listened to my bemoan my problems and occasionally he would ask for advice about his own sons, not so far in age from me. He was a good teacher, passionate about his subject and he really wanted us all to see how cool it was.

I was a decent biology student. I could have been better if I applied myself, but Mrs. Gilmore's lesson was one I needed to learn over and over. In the middle of the school year I was having a particularly difficult time. I came into class and was completely unprepared for the test we were having that day. I turned in a blank paper. I remember looking at the questions and knowing none of the answers. I knew if it were a better day I would pass, but this day I had nothing. Biology was the least of my concerns.

Mr. Mealey never counted that paper against me. Without telling me, he didn't include it in my averages. I didn't know this until I received my term grade. It was the same as the term before and statistically it should not have been. When I realized what he had done, I wept. This simple act of kindness was an immeasurable gift. I am still grateful for it, grateful that he was willing to give me a chance to prove myself on the next test. I did. Sometimes an unexpected, unearned kindness makes all the difference.

I haven't forgotten that lesson, either.

Many years later, after college, I was working for a university as a research assistant. I interviewed people who had mental health challenges in the 1960s. One of my subjects was a man who was still quite ill. His home, where he lived alone, was littered with old broken toys and trash and take-out food boxes. Much of the interview was filled with his anger at his ex-wife and his kids. I was becoming nervous and considered ending the interview early.

He paused in the midst of a tirade, then his shoulders slumped. He looked me in the eye for the first time since I'd arrived. "I haven't seen my kids in at least a decade. These toys, I keep 'em in case they come back. I haven't called or asked them. I'm afraid they'll hang up on me." He paused, looking around his home. "You don't regret the things you do, you regret the things you don't do."

The interview concluded soon thereafter, but I haven't forgotten his lesson either. Neither lesson, really - the one about regret or the one about fear and sympathy.

We never know who our teachers will be. Nor do we know whom we will influence. All we can do is move through the world open to the possibility. Open to the chance that we will learn something unexpected or that our actions will help someone else learn what they most need to know. Open to gratitude, for the gifts received and given.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Gigs in the strangest places

I spent this past weekend at the National Storytelling Conference in Richmond, VA. It was a wonderful gathering of the tribe, a chance to reconnect with some of my favorite people, learn new things about my art and remind myself of why I do the work I do. I had planned for this post to be about the conference, but something happened on the way home that I need to share with you; conference stuff can come later in the week.

Since moving to Kansas City I have found myself on more airplanes than ever before. We're close enough to most places that flying doesn't take very long, far enough that flying is the only reasonable way to get many places. I flew to the conference, Kansas City to Atlanta to Richmond. Easy.

On my way home, my second flight from Atlanta to KC was delayed. The crew did a great job letting us know why it was delayed and when we might depart. I have worked in the service industry and know how many people complain, how few people praise, so I decided to thank the captain for being so clear. He was waiting for the plane, just like everyone else, passing time at the gate desk.

I thanked him and we got to chatting about travel, life and work. When I told him I'm a storyteller he was fascinated and asked all the questions I have come to expect. What do you do? Who are your audiences? How did you get into it? And then his face lit up.

"Would you like to tell a story on the plane?"

I froze. And then said, "Yes!"

Half an hour later we boarded. After apologizing for the delay, the captain told everyone that there was a professional storyteller on board and, if no one objected, she would tell a short story. Once the passengers gave their consent we took off.

I have to tell you, I was anxious. I've been telling stories for 20 years and rarely get that nervous anymore, but telling to a captive audience was nerve-wracking.

Halfway through the flight I went to the front of the place, was told how to use the intercom, the captain gave me a lovely introduction and I began. I told a simple version of There's Always Room for One More. It seemed appropriate for an audience sitting cheek-to-jowl on an airplane. As I told I could see people all the way down the airplane leaning into the aisle to see. I think, for the most part, they liked it. They applauded politely and smiled as I walked back to my seat.

I have to say, it felt like a Brother Blue moment. Blue would tell to anyone, anywhere at the drop of a hat. I could imagine him smiling at me the whole time.

I enjoyed the experience and am grateful for the opportunity. If nothing else, it gives a whole new meaning to in-flight entertainment!

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

O is for... opportunity

I love the letter O. I love its openness and roundness and the possibility it suggests. O is for optimism and opportunity. 

We never know when a chance to tell stories will come upon us. I have found myself unexpectedly telling stories on public transit, in business meetings, in hospital and to random strangers on the street. We never know when the universe will say here. Now. Tell a story. Here is an opportunity to share. We need to pay attention for these opportunities and be ready when they arise. Don’t be afraid.

What’s more, we never know when we will be given the gift of story fodder, the opportunity to craft a story out of the world around us. It might be in the overheard conversation, in a moment inspired by a book or movie, in the time spent with strangers or loved ones. We never know when the universe will say shut up. Listen. Here is an opportunity to hear something magnificent. We need to pay attention for these opportunities too, and remember that storytelling starts with listening.

Beyond opportunities to remember we live in a world rich with story that needs ours as much as anyone else’s, we also never know when we will have an opportunity for work. It could arise out of a casual conversation, a referral, almost anything. We just need to remember to be grateful and to be ethical in the work we do. But really, we never know when the universe will say try this. You’ll be great. We need to pay attention for these opportunities as well, strive to make them and accept them when they arise. And, because the universe sometimes needs a bit of help, carry business cards. 

All of this reminds me of a joke. 

There was a great flood and a man found himself stranded on the roof of his home. He began to pray, asking God to rescue him. After a few minutes some people in a canoe came along and invited him in. “No,” he replied, “I’m fine. God will take care of me.” 

He kept praying. The water kept rising. It lapped at the edges of the roof.

Soon some people in a rowboat drifted by and asked if he needed help. “No,” he replied, “I’m fine. God will take care of me.”

He kept praying. The water kept rising. Now the water was as high as his toes.

Soon a helicopter hovered over him. They threw down a ladder and called out, “Climb on!”

“No,” he replied, “I’m fine. God will take care of me.” 

The helicopter roared away. He kept praying. The water kept rising. Soon the house began to shudder and then it collapsed underneath him. Try as he might, he soon drowned.

The man found himself in Heaven. He asked God, “Why didn’t you help? I prayed!”

And God replied, “Hey, I sent two boats and helicopter, what more did you want?”

The storyteller’s work fits in just about anywhere. We just need to pay attention and the opportunities are there.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

How to build a home

Moving is hard. On any list of life stressors, it's right up there with marriage, death and taxes. Having recently moved, I'd argue that not only is the move hard, the rebuilding is hard and is a separate task unto itself.

In early January, my sweetheart and I moved from Boston to Kansas City. I've written about it elsewhere in this blog, so I won't rehash it here. For the last two weeks we've been unpacking and settling into our new home, working together to build a place that is comfortable and comforting.

Building a home, simply unpacking and settling in, is hard work so I've been thinking about what constitutes home. It's pretty complex. Home ranges from the personal (the space I live in, the layout, design, meaning of stuff) to the communal (the community within which I live, my neighborhood, my social networks, my work) to the geographic (the neighborhood, city, country, language, weather) and undoubtedly other factors I'm forgetting. Building a home requires manipulating those factors you can control and gaining an understanding of those you cannot.

For the last few weeks, Kevin and I have been working on the personal (the easiest to control) unpacking, choosing where pictures go, what we will see when we walk in the house, what do we need to adjust to be more comfortable. What we value is revealed by what we choose to focus on. I unpacked the kitchen and books, he worked on technology. We set up our bedroom together first, so we could nest, then the office, so we'd each have a place to work. It was the easiest and most effective way we could care for ourselves and each other. There's still a lot of personal homebuilding to go, but we're on our way. The personal act of homebuilding seems to be dogged determination as much as anything. Keep unpacking. Keep deciding. Keep working until it's done.

The communal homebuilding is slower and harder to control. We were lucky, in that we have a friend in town, the wonderful storyteller Priscilla Howe. She's made sure we know where the good stuff is, has comforted and listened to us. We're working on building community through work and play and neighbors. It takes time to build community and relationships; I have no doubt we will. I don't feel a need to rush it, I'd rather let the heart move at its own pace.

The geographic is the hardest to impact and build, though brings offers unexpected and necessary  comforts. We picked a great neighborhood in a cool city. While we speak the same language our ears are still tuning to the regional accent. And this morning, the weather gave me a gift that helps me feel at home, far more than I expected.

I woke up to a rainstorm. I love the rain. Hearing the rain this morning removed me from my anxiety about new place, new home, more work to do. All I had to do was listen and I remembered the home I carry inside of me.

And this is what I really wanted to say. Homebuilding is a complex and ongoing act. Our homes are both external and internal - the places we live and the internal life. As long as we retain a link to our internal homes, the key parts of ourselves that help us understand who we are, the external homebuilding becomes easier. We just have to remember to be willing to notice.

Of course, the picture goes there. Yes, community will emerge. And look, the rain finds me within myself, again and again and again.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

From Boston to Kansas City

So, I made it to Kansas City. The road was long and not without adventure, but (to spoil the ending) all is okay.

Last Saturday (less than a week ago!) Kevin and I were preparing for our going-away party. We were excited and tired and nervous. The movers had arrived the day before and much of our life was already boxed, but the party would be fun; among other things, we were getting married, surprising everyone who thought they had come to wish us a safe journey in the most literal sense.

Half-an-hour before we were to leave, both of us rushing to shower and dress, trying not to trip over boxes, we got a call from the realtor who had found us a home in Kansas City. The whole process had been a little odd, she'd refused to let us sign a lease though she happily took our money. She wanted us to sign once we arrived, saying that way we wouldn't be paying rent until we were there. We objected, she insisted, and we were so relieved at finding a home that we didn't push the way we should have.

The house had been sold, she told us. Sorry, you don't have a place to live or put your stuff when the movers make it to KC in 10 days.

Her story changed as she repeated it, so both Kevin and I believe she knew about the likely sale ahead of time, that this was why she didn't want us to sign a lease; we were her ace-in-the-hole if the sale fell through. Be that as it may, we didn't have time to worry about her unethical behavior, we had a party with a wedding to go to, we had movers to oversee... we were busy.

The party was fun, the wedding was great and the next day the movers came back. We decided I should go to KC early to find housing, so I left on Monday as the movers were packing the truck, leaving Kevin to deal with them and the apartment clean-up without me.

From Malden to Kansas City is about 1425 miles. I arrived Wednesday afternoon, 2-and-a-half days of determined driving. Tuesday, my longest driving day, covered 700 miles. Along the way I saw stunning landscape, eroding farmhouses, mountains and plains, the wonder and oddity of this country. It was beautiful. It also gave me time to process some of my emotions about leaving Boston and time to strategize around finding a home.

Upon my arrival I immediately saw two homes (one lovely but with a limited lease, the other not really what I was looking for). I was prepared to go with the limited lease, just to have a home base, when one last home listing caught my eye. I sent an email at 11pm Wednesday, looked at the property at 9am Thursday and had a signed lease by 1pm. Just like that.

This home is beautiful. It's in a great neighborhood, blocks from a terrific bookstore and shops, and the house itself is warm and bright. Clearly, all of this madness was the universe conspiring to give us the home we really needed, not just a good-enough place.

All told, I am grateful. I am also tired, worn-out, exhausted and weary. Today and tomorrow I'm mostly resting. Once we're settled I will rest a little more before I undertake my next adventure. Because that's what it all is. An adventure.

Life is shaped by how we view it. While all of this has been stressful I'd rather view it as an adventure and fodder for more stories, than see it as anything else.

I'll keep you posted. Who knows what else the road will bring?

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

The necessity of the unfurling road

The movers came on Friday. Saturday, I got married (that's a different post, but I'm happy). By Sunday night everything was packed. And today I set off on a 3-day drive to Kansas City while my sweetie (husband?!) supervised the truck loading and wrapped up the loose ends in Boston. He joins me in KC soon.

To say the last few days - actually the last few weeks - have been stressful is an understatement.

All that being said, it could be worse. I am on the road. I am safe. I love and am loved.

I drove today from Boston to central Pennsylvania. I have about 1000 miles to go. This gives me time to process some of my feelings of grief and exhaustion and anxiety about what will happen once I arrive.

There is something to be said for slower journeys. Once upon a time that meant by foot or horse or wagon; now driving is the slow way. As I watch the landscape change from the urban east coast to snow covered farms with encroaching developments, as I see the color of the sky change from ocean grey to mountain blue, as I prepare for the road ahead, I have time to watch my personal landscape change.

I don't know what my new internal map will look like. I know only that I will never know if I don't explore, if I don't take to the road and allow for the possibility of new places, new vistas, new selves.

Tomorrow is another long drive day, 500 miles or more. The ribbon of the road will carry me on and help me explore my new geography of self. I'll let you know who I find.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Endings and beginnings

My life has been a bit of a wild ride lately. I’m not complaining, merely observing, that having a birthday, attending two intellectual conferences (presenting at one), deciding to move half-way across the country, quitting a job and leaping into self-employment, all within the space of two months, is a lot. I’ve had to reset my thinking about the world and my place in it several times in rapid succession.

While overwhelming, I think this is good. When we become too comfortable, we cease growing; it’s these periods of rapid acceleration that help us see who we really are and uncover new potential, but boy, this has been a roller-coaster. It’s included quite a few goodbyes and hellos with more coming and, I’ve realized, this is something we’re not taught to handle, not in school, not in work, not in most of our lives.

Endings and beginnings happen all the time. From the first time we go to school (both an ending and a beginning) to our deaths (an ending and maybe a beginning) we have repeated opportunities to shed the old and embrace the new. American culture, at least, teaches us that it’s the beginnings that matter, far more than the endings, yet I think there are strong lessons to be learned from each. The last few months have really highlighted that for me.

Last week I left a job I’d held for over 12 years. In that time I’d grown, stagnated, succeeded, failed, helped and hurt the organization I worked for. Over my last few weeks at this company I had many people tell me that they didn’t want me to leave, that the place would never be the same. I didn’t really know how to respond at first but, as I thought about it, I realized this was an opportunity not only for me, but for the organization. Sure, I represented something there. Sure, I hold knowledge that may not be replaced. But my absence allows the company to look for new solutions to the holes I had filled, find new and possibly better ways to solve problems. It allows the organization to grow mindfully, just as I am growing mindfully by leaving. I take with me a wealth of experience and lessons learned - it wasn’t time wasted. It’s at once an ending and a beginning.

It’s the same thing as I leave the New England storytelling community for a cross-country move. 

This is the community that has nurtured me, held me, shaped me and helped me become the teller and person I am now. And I’ve had an impact on this community, organizing events, mentoring new tellers and so on. As I leave, there are voids that will open up, places into which others can grow. As I leave, it’s the end of a period of my life, but a new one begins. It’s a time of rich possibility. 

There is that trite saying, For every door that closes a window opens. I don’t know if this is always true, but I do know that endings create opportunity for reflection and growth that we would not otherwise receive. Endings create space we might not have otherwise noticed. Endings are a kind of beginning, if only because they provide an opportunity for a pause in the midst of an otherwise busy world. I wish we valued endings more, or at least were more willing to talk about them - even the hardest of endings give us opportunities to do what we might not have otherwise done.

The hero needs to ride off into the sunset before she can find her next adventure. The town needs to bid her adieu before they can build the next great thing. We need to cry, grieve, mourn before we can move on. Buried in each ending is possibility and the potential for new worlds. Even in midst of our own deaths, if we are lucky, there is opportunity for new experience and growth. Even as we say goodbye to those we love, we can create new stories, new memories and new relationships.

Treasure your endings and do not consider them failures. They are the universe reminding us that now is the time to grow, to go, to take wing and fly. We never know what might happen next.

Failing and Flying

Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

It's the same when love comes to an end,

or the marriage fails and people say

they knew it was a mistake, that everybody

said it would never work. That she was 

old enough to know better. But anything

worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean

on the other side of the island while

love was fading out of her, the stars

burning so extravagantly those nights that

anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed

like a visitation, the gentleness in her

like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back

through the hot stony field after swimming,

the sea light behind her and the huge sky 

on the other side of that. Listened to her

while we ate lunch. How can they say

the marriage failed? Like the people who

came back from Provence (when it was Provence)

and said it was pretty but the food was greasy. 

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, 

but just coming to the end of triumph.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Celebration countdown day 9: a love note

As you know, I've been counting down to my birthday with things I love, in the hopes that it might inspire us all to love the world more. I've missed a few days, but that's okay.

Well, tomorrow is my birthday. Over the last few days I've covered:

• a poem about why we should celebrate
• time
• hammer horror films
• sunset
• fairy tales
• the smell of autumn
• another poem, this one about a way of moving through the world
• adagio for strings

Really, these are all love notes to being alive. 

There are so many other things I could list. Dim sum, The Beatles, massage, dancing even when you suck at it, storytelling, eavesdropping, apples, the ocean, the feel and sound and smell of rain, the crunch of snow, so many people, laughing until my stomach hurts and and and...

The world is vast and possible. Our lives are what we make of them.

Love the world. Love yourself. Thrive as best you can. And happy birthday to us all, because really, every day is our birthday, a new day of life in this world.

The Summer Day
Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

The oldest of friends

I've been in a bit of a tizzy lately, my life full of the unpleasant soundtrack of resistance winning. I keep making excuses - too busy, too much work, too tired to write or tell or create. (Keep going, I promise this isn't a whine.)

This afternoon, in my busy-ness, I decided to put off my real work of writing and thinking and dreaming to take a box of donation books to the library. Like many of you, I'm sure, I have a tendency to collect books and my shelves, they run over. When I can't stand it anymore I give some to the library.

Once I dropped off the box I was drawn in by that wonderful scent, the paper and binding and patient smell of the library. As a child some of my happiest times were there. In the library, no one cared that I was a bookworm, no one cared that I lived in imagination more than the real world, no one cared that I was often a little bit different.

So I wandered the stacks this afternoon, listening to school kids pretend to work and really flirt, admiring the dusty sunlight and running my fingers across my old friend, the Dewey decimal numbers. And then I stopped.

I was in the young adult section, fiction, in front of the L's.

Now, like many of you, some of my best friends have been books. They have carried me through some of the hardest times in my life, reassured me, kept me from being alone. My fingers had stopped on A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle. I hadn't read it in at least 20 years. This was an old friend I'd long abandoned.

Those of you who have read this book may skip this paragraph. For the rest of you, it's young adult sci-fi and so much more. Published in the early 1960s, it tells the story of Meg Murray, who doesn't fit in school or really anywhere else, and her family. She, her youngest brother, Charles Wallace and their friend, Calvin, go on a universe-wide quest to rescue her father and the world from a great darkness, with some unusual allies. It's spiritual, political, passionate and a gem. Read it.

As I hunkered on my sofa this afternoon and consumed the book in one sitting, I wasn't just this 44 year old woman who is too busy and too tired. I was again my 10 and 12 and 15 year old self, the one who didn't fit in, the one who thought she would never find her place, the one who was lost and wanted to be on another planet more than anything else. I was my 26 year old self who had cancer. I was my 31 year old self, both heart-broken and in love. And again, I am my 44 year old self, wondering who I will be next and if I am brave enough to leap.

I curled up and wept as I read. I cried for all the selves I had been and all those I will be, for the way time is maleable. I cried for the lonely girl and scared young woman and confused adult. I cried with relief that all of these people co-exist in this one body. I cried with joy that this old friend, these pages, these words, were waiting for me, to remind me of who I had been, who I am and who I might yet be.

I am so grateful to Meg and Charles Wallace and Calvin and Mrs. Whatsis and Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which and Aunt Beast and especially Madeleine L'Engle. Thank you for waiting for me all of these years. Thank you for welcoming me back and reminding me of who I was and of the possibility before me.

All of this leaves me wondering what other books might be worth revisiting, what other lessons my 5 or 15 year old self might have in store for me now. And what books you've re-read lately. I'd love to hear about it. And who knows, maybe we will find each other, in the library, checking out our old favorites at the beginning of a new aventure.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

When stories find us

I am at the National Storytelling Conference, a wonderful annual gathering of tellers from all walks of life and all range of experience. It's a great opportunity to hear stories, hone skills and meet new friends.


Truth to tell, I didn't really want to come. I've been very busy and was yearning for a quiet weekend at home. I knew once I got here I'd be glad, but wow, was I grumpy. And when you set out on a journey with that kind of attitude, you are guaranteed a different journey than the one you expect.

On Friday I packed my suitcase and called the cab, thinking if nothing else I'd have a chance to get some writing or reading done on the way.

You know what's coming.

My cabbie was great. Not only did he find a good route from my home to the airport, he loved to talk. And he loved to talk about food. From the moment I got into the cab until he dropped me off at the terminal he was telling me about all the hidden gems in the greater Boston area that I had never found, so many places I couldn't remember them all and started taking notes. He was a man on a mission to share his delight in the delicious.

Okay, so I got to the airport and thought Now I'll have some quiet time. I can read or maybe even write a little. This might have worked had a four-year old not decided that I was her personal plaything. I don't know about you, but a joyful four-year old isn't something generally I want to resist. We played until it was time to board.

Great, I thought, no one is sitting next to me. Now I can read and write a little. Two minutes before the plane door was to be closed, a man ran on board. He huffed and puffed his way down the aisle and plopped next to me, apologizing for being breathless and sweaty. And then he told me he was late because of trafficit'snotlikethatinSpokanehe'sonhiswayhomeaftertwomonthsherebuildingan additionforhiscousinwhowasparalyzedinacarcrash. And then he took a breath. We introduced ourselves. For the next three hours, he told me his story. He told me about his family, his 20-year old cousin who would never walk again. The blueberry farm she grew up on. His mother, his girlfriend, his girlfriend's kids, his photography hobby. By the time we were looking at his photos on his laptop (they were very good) I gave up on reading or writing until sometime next week.

At the airport we shook hands, wished each other the best of luck and I got into my next cab to hear about life in Somalia, African family structure and social safety nets, children and cooking and wives and....

By the time I got to the conference I was already full of stories and warmed up to hear more.

The universe conspired against me, against my grumpy mood and yearning to be alone. I have been reminded of both the power and the pervasiveness of story. It's inescapable, at the conference (for three days I am immersed in the language of story and surrounded by those as passionate about it as I am) and beyond. 

Now, I know story matters. I know we are surrounded by stories, in our bodies, our minds, our architecture, the planet itself. Everything we do has the potential for story. But sometimes, like everyone else, I get caught up in my own crap and overlook the incredible richness and human need for story. I need a whack. My journey here was one whack after another. Duly noted.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

On love and being given the Brother Blue and Ruth Hill award

Typically on Thursdays I post in response to the story quote of the week. This week won't be an exception, but it's in an unexpected and overwhelming context, so please bear with me.

I've written before, many times, about Brother Blue and his wife, Ruth Hill. They are my teachers, my friends, my spiritual parents. Brother Blue died in November, 2009 and I still miss him. I talk with Ruth every week and see her several times every month. I don't know who I would be without them.

The Brother Blue and Ruth Hill award was instituted by the League for the Advancement of New England Storytelling in 2002 to "recognize extraordinary commitment and efforts to promote a broader understanding of the art of storytelling and the support of storytellers in the development of their art. It serves, as Brother Blue, has said, 'To honor those who give their lives to storytelling to change the world.'"

This year my partner, Kevin Brooks, and I were the recipients. I cannot tell you how honored and grateful we are. To be selected by our peers as being worthy of this award, and an award established in honor of a couple who have shaped both our lives, is humbling and overwhelming.

Which brings me to the story quote of the week.


A people are as healthy and confident as the stories they tell themselves. Sick storytellers can make nations sick. Without stories we would go mad. Life would lose it’s moorings or orientation... Stories can conquer fear, you know. They can make the heart larger.
― Ben Okri


Brother Blue always said that if we knew each other's stories we couldn't point a gun at each other. If we understood how much we were alike on an individual basis by hearing each others stories, we couldn't kill each other. If we told from the middle of the middle of ourselves to the middle of the middle of our listeners, there would be no reason to fear.

We understand ourselves and our lives through the stories we tell and hear. They create the worlds we live in. We need to be mindful of what stories we tell because they are how we learn, understand, shape and share our worlds. A well-told story can build walls or bridges.

And that is why I do the work I do, whether on a stage, in the street, a boardroom or class. Stories connect us. They keep us healthy because we can reach beyond ourselves and find we are not alone. They make our hearts larger because they give us the gift of seeing the world through a new lens and the realization that this lens is not so different from our own. Standing on the stage this past weekend, as we accepted the Brother Blue and Ruth Hill award, all I could see was the potential of hundreds of beating hearts, expanding to hold all the stories they heard, flying off to make the world a bigger place.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Longing for winter

I live in New England where this time of year typically is grey and slushy, the streets full of piles of snow. In an typical year my feet would be complaining about winter boots, I would have shoveled my own weight in snow and I would have slipped on the ice at least once. In a typical year I would be silently congratulating myself on getting through another winter.

This isn't a typical year. It's been an unusually mild winter. We've certainly had a few Very Cold Days, we've had some snow, but it's been nothing like years past. Whether it's global climate change or simply an anomalous year, I don't know. I do know that, for all that it's been easier, I find myself longing for winter.

Winter gives me something to push against. The short days and long nights can trigger depression, so the cold and snow give me an external force to fight with. They offer me badly needed resistance. Much the way a weight lifter needs to lift heavy things to be strong, I need to push against winter to not be consumed by my own darkness on the long dark nights.

Winter is beautiful. The starkness of snow and barren trees, the sparkling ice, the plumes of exhalation that turn me into a dragon, the clarity of the stars are a kind of beauty you can only find in the cold, in the snow, when the world crunches beneath your boots.

Winter allows for comfort. When I've been outside shoveling or driving home in the dark, winter encourages a kind of self-comfort that seems silly when it's 45 degrees outside. I don't really need hot cocoa if I can walk around with an open coat. I don't really need the crackling fire if my hands aren't frozen and my toes lost to feeling. I can still enjoy them, but the need makes the cocoa sweeter, the fire warmer.

Winter allows for rest. We all need fallow time, a chance to be quiet and look within, when we are not called upon to produce and create, but can rest in the dark, replenish ourselves with long nights spent reading or talking. Winter gives us a badly needed reason to stay home, to not rush out, to do only what is essential and in so doing, allow our reservoirs to refill.

Winter is a time of possibility, where magic lurks. C.S. Lewis knew this, introducing us to Narnia in the winter, when the White Witch beguiles Edmund. Maybe he learned this from the many fairy tales that call upon winter to hide mystery. We need to see the tracks in the snow so we can wonder if they were from a squirrel or a clawed man. We need to leave out sweet cakes and milk for the fairies and to marvel when they are gone. We need the wonder of the frozen lake, the threat of the crack and the safe scurry to the side. We need the mystery of the cold and dark and the persistent hope of warmth and light.

Because Winter reminds us to hope. When winter is at its most fierce, when the storm rage and snow piles high, we know it will not last. Winter reminds us that even the most trying times are fleeting, that we can endure even this with only a bare memory and faint promise of spring.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer